


Words as Weapons

by Waning_Grace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Antagonism, Gen, Season/Series 12 Speculation, mentions of torture, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waning_Grace/pseuds/Waning_Grace
Summary: "You're just an accent in a cheap pantsuit." Sam sneers, mouth running on autopilot and channeling Dean. "What do you think you can do to me?" Based on the Season 12 promos.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone else was doing it, so that's my excuse for jumping into the Sam!torture pond as well...

"Is there anything you'd like before we begin?" The woman— _Toni, her name is Toni_ , Sam mentally corrects himself—asks with an infuriating smirk from where she stands a good foot away from where she has him trussed up to a rickety chair. "A cup of tea perhaps? Surely you must be thirsty by now. Need to piss?" Toni continues on, watching Sam's face closely. "Maybe a sandwich? I wouldn't advise it myself, but...” She finally trails off with a shrug like this is just another day at the office and Sam's not her prisoner yet she garners no reaction out of him. He just continues to sit there, blinking heavily through all the drugs she'd pumped into him earlier, eyeing her impassively. It's enough to make her smile. She may not have gotten anything out of him yet but the fun hasn't even begun. "Very well then." She says to his silence, "Don’t say I didn't offer."

 

For his part Sam lets her annoyingly accented voice wash over him like a wave upon the beach. Whatever she drugged him with is good stuff, he'll give her that. His head feels fuzzy even as it's pounding in time with the sluggish beat of his heart and it's wreaked just enough havoc on his senses that everything has a wavy 'seeing mirages in the desert' feel to it. Add to that the burning agony that's the gunshot in his left leg and the grief that's still settling like a stone in his stomach and it doesn't take a genius to realize that Sam's going nowhere fast. Even if he could get free he's fairly sure he wouldn't be able to maintain standing let alone fight, not to mention he doesn't even have a clue where in the hell they are in the first place. The best Sam could tell as he was being not-so-gently drug inside was that it was some kind of underground basement of sorts which tells him exactly zilch. Between the drugs and the pain and the blacking out that had followed the gunshot it was impossible to tell how far from the bunker they'd traveled. Not that it mattered anyway considering Dean was....

 

 _Oh no. No no no! He wasn't going there, not now..._ Sam swallows roughly, pushing the thought down with it even as his stomach twists under the weight of the grief. Now wasn't the time nor the place for this; he could let go later provided he managed to get out of this in one piece... And that? That was laughable right there, wasn't it? Nobody was coming for him. Dean was gone for good this time and who knew where that banishing sigil had sent Cas. Where ever it was, Sam didn't harbor any hopes of the angel getting back in time to find him now. Pain and panic swell miserably in his belly, rising up his gorge and Sam thinks wildly for a moment that he might actually throw up. He can feel the heat of Toni's gaze on him, taking in his terror and palpable grief, yet Sam could care less. For the first time in years he's alone as he's ever been; no Dean, no Cas. No home. No purpose. What was the point then? Why keep fighting when there was nothing to go on for? Before he can get too far along on that train of thought, however, he finds it completely derailed by movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s all the warning he gets before he’s being drenched with icy water.

 

Sam splutters and coughs, blinking furiously as he shakes his head; soaked strands of his hair flying in every direction. When he finally settles again and lifts his head, still blinking water out of his eyes, it’s to find Toni standing in front of him holding a bucket. She looks terribly smug as she holds up the battered wooden thing like it’s a grand chalice instead of a dirty mop bucket. “Are we ready to begin then?” She asks innocently.

 

There are about a hundred different things Sam wants say to that and he’s not at all ashamed to admit that not one of them are nice yet in the end all that comes out of his mouth is a rasping laugh. There’s nothing remotely funny yet Sam finds he can’t make himself stop. The sounds are terrible, the effort dragging against his overly dry throat making sounds more comparable to a rasping bark rather than actual laughter yet it continues on. It’s just so utterly absurd! After everything he and Dean have been through—after all the pain and death and torture and Lucifer and the Darkness—after all that Toni has the gall to believe she’s a threat? Sam guffaws and coughs, choking on his mirth right up until there’s a resounding ***SLAP!*** that echoes around the room and leaves his right cheek stinging from the force of it. 

 

“Now then, that’s better.” Toni chirps into the silence that falls afterwards, one hand still poised for a second strike just in case it’s needed. “Now that you’ve had your fun, and I dare say that’s all the fun you shall be having, it is time to get down to business.” She frowns down at Sam, disappointment evident in her eyes. “I have questions and you’re going to answer them. If you refuse…” She trails off with a suggestive glance towards the bucket she’s still holding in one hand and lets Sam make the mental leaps himself on where his unwillingness to cooperate could lead.

 

Even with his cheek still stinging from the force of her slap Sam can’t help but prickle at her suggestion. “You’re just an accent in a cheap pantsuit.” He sneers, letting his mouth run on autopilot as he channels Dean because seriously? She has to be bluffing. If Toni really knew half of what she claimed to know about him then she wouldn’t even bother. He’s been beaten, possessed, cut, stabbed, had his bones broken, lost his mind and soul, and literally survived hell itself. Compared to all that Toni, and whatever quaint torture she’s devised, is nothing and it’s likely they both know it. Still, Sam can’t resist getting in one more little jab: “What do you think you can do to me?”

 

Instead of looking offended, or even worried, Toni simply smiles that annoying smirk of hers like she knows a secret Sam doesn’t and turns her back to him, striding across the room. From his position on the chair he can’t tell what she’s doing, can only listen as she rummages around before she straightens and turns to him again. This time when she walks back all pretenses are gone: there’s a cold look in her eyes and a serious expression upon her face, but that’s not what has Sam’s attention. It’s on the blowtorch she’s swinging nonchalantly from her free hand. She follows the trail of his eyes with her own and her voice when she speaks lets Sam know he’s very, very screwed: “I can do plenty.”

 

There’s a click followed by the hiss of gas as the blowtorch is turned on.

 

Sam’s screams follow shortly thereafter.


End file.
